


Mission: Piano

by lucky_spike



Series: Stabdads [3]
Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Gen, Musical Instruments, Stabdads AU, the unparalleled beauty of the recorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-10
Updated: 2011-08-10
Packaged: 2017-10-22 11:18:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/237483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucky_spike/pseuds/lucky_spike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Karkat has wanted to play that stupid piano his whole life. Slick has effectively prevented this for years. But when Karkat gains a new weapon in the battle, the stalemate rapidly dissolves. Once again, it is war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mission: Piano

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [My Heart Will Go On - Recorder By Candlelight](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/4105) by Matt Mulholland. 



> I offer no apologies for this.

The first time Karkat touched the piano, Slick had about taken his head off. He was too young, he was going to break it, pianos are for adults and not children. He’d been just two sweeps then, and had grown up listening to it. He’d been curious but that first incursion and subsequent rebuttal was enough to make him forget about the piano until he was older.

He was three and a half sweeps when he finally worked up the courage to try it again. Slick was gone – Karkat had apparently reached some magical age where he was capable of looking after himself for hours at a time(1) – and the piano was unguarded. He slid up onto the bench, glancing over his shoulder though he knew he was alone in the house, and laid his short fingers on the keys.

When he listened to Slick play, it was like a whole different instrument. The entire piano seemed to throb with sound, pulsing and screaming with the beat and the music. When Karkat plinked at the keys, it was one string at a time. Here an A, there an E, middle C at long last . . . but there wasn’t music to it. It was just noise. He prodded the keys for a while longer, imagined that he was approximating a tune, before he finally admitted defeat and left the piano to rest.

It had piqued his curiosity though, to know he could play the thing without immediate retribution. Sometimes when Slick would play, Karkat would creep into the office and sit in the doorway, watching fiercely. He didn’t play like the teacher at Karkat’s school – she sat straight up, kept her feet on the pedals, read the sheet music. Karkat hadn’t even known what sheet music _was_ until music class that day. And as for posture . . . Spades Slick was probably able to define the word, and that would have been about it. He hunched over the keys, moved as he needed to, pounded them until Karkat was sure they’d break. They never did, and sometimes he was amazed at that.

And then when Karkat would be left alone again, he’d go back to the piano and pick and prod at the keys and try to create a song. The first time he managed to pull a tune out of the thing by sheer dumb luck his face almost split in half with a smile. It was a song Spades would play sometimes. It sounded nothing like his guardian’s version, of course, but the core notes were there and that was plenty. After weeks of noise, it was an achievement to hit upon a tune.

He debated asking his music teacher to help him learn, but that was too risky. What if she mentioned something to Slick? Teachers were like that – assuming that every kid and troll in the school had normal parents. Egbert’s Dad would probably have exploded with buttercream-frosted pride if the music teacher told him John had expressed interest in the piano. Slick, though, Slick . . . Karkat wasn’t sure what reaction he’d have, and that was enough to warrant avoidance.

In the end, though, the music teacher was the saving grace. When it finally happened, Karkat was nearly five; he’d been playing the piano on his own enough that he knew a few rudimentary tunes, could fumble his way through one simple song(2). He’d even dared imagine possibly informing Slick of this, probably lying about spending time learning at school or something. But then, one ordinary day, the music teacher made an announcement.

“As you all know, I’m sure,” she told the class, “this year will be the year you all finally get to try your hands at being musicians!” Karkat had wondered what she’d meant. You couldn’t sign up for the orchestra for another year, and the band for another year after that. But Terezi seemed wildly enthusiastic about the idea, not that she was ever any other way about anything.

She punched him in the shoulder. “How pumped are you, Karkles?” He hissed at her and rubbed his bicep. As the class had learned fairly quickly, her terrible accident over the summer had done nothing to dampen her disposition, or her aim.

“Don’t hit.”

“She’ll do what she wants, Karkles.” His opposite shoulder stung, and he whirled on Terezi’s sister, Vriska, who was as close to the picture of innocence as she was capable of being. “You don’t boss around the Scourge Sisters!”

“Stop punching me and I won’t boss you around!”

Vriska looked doubtful. Terezi had already turned her attention from him, instead assaulting Dave Strider, who had the misfortune to sit in front of her. “Bet you’re super-pumped cool kid!”

Dave half-looked over his shoulder and offered a minimal shrug. Even at ten years old, he was unbelievably cool.

Terezi beamed to Karkat and Vriska. “He’s pumped.”

“What _for_?” Karkat was losing patience, and no one seemed to be in a hurry to get to the point. But no, what was this? The teacher had turned, bent over a big cardboard box. Was it music? Was it instruments? The class watched, rapt, except for Sollux because that stupid kid had probably already figured out what they were doing, as the teacher flourished their keys to the world of musical creation. There were gasps, and squeals of delight (mostly from Terezi), and the class passed around the instruments in a sort of awed reverence.

When Karkat finally got his hands on the recorder – _his_ recorder – he thought it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. What music you could make.

And then that thought went down in flames, because Terezi had got hers the right way ‘round and wasted no time. _SquuuEEeeAAAk_.

Gamzee, seated up front, turned around and grinned broadly, if dazedly. “It’s beautiful.”

-()-

(1) He wasn’t, of course, but no one ever figured on Spades Slick being a model of responsible parenting. Were it not for a few key interventions from the rest of the Midnight Crew, it’s doubtful Karkat would have even lived to see three sweeps.

(2) A song his guardian was actually fairly fond of – ‘Closing Time’

-()-

Two weeks later, and Karkat was pretty sure he was some kind of musical genius. When the Crew would go on heists or raids or just out drinking, the trolls would be left in the secret hideout with their homework and enough crayons to entertain an entire elementary school(3). They, of course, used this opportunity to do the only homework they were remotely interested in: recorder practice.

They had their strengths. Aradia was brilliant at scales, Sollux was pretty good at finding the sharps and the flats on either sides of the regular notes, and Tavros was really excellent at playing the first five notes of the ‘Pupa Pan’ theme song. He did so incessantly.

Karkat, on the other hand, could play ‘Closing Time’ in addition to his scales. Loudly. Very loudly. He insisted the squawks and squeals were ‘accidentals’ and were ‘stylistically allowed’. Aradia and Sollux tried to talk him out of it at first, but eventually his instrument’s squeaks eroded even their objections.

So based on his friends’ performances, and the fact that he knew an entire song from beginning to end, Karkat was pretty sure that he was destined to be some kind of musician. He was obviously brilliant at the recorder, and if that was the gateway to music then no telling where he could go from there. Preferably, for starters, he thoughts wistfully, the piano in the office.

It was this conviction that emboldened him sufficiently, after three weeks of dedicated if secretive recorder practice, to play the recorder in his room one evening. He was pretty sure Slick wasn’t home, all the better to explore his musical style without critique. And if he was home, who cared? Karkat was the world’s next great musician.

He was about four notes into ‘Hot Crossed Buns’ when the door to his room slammed open. Slick stood in the doorway, obviously struggling not to throw a knife through the most convenient target. “What,” the man said slowly, as if each word were a true effort to grit out, “the _hell_ is that thing?”

“S’a recorder.” Karkat was smart enough not to hold it out, instead clutching it closer to his chest. “For music class.”

“It’s godawful.”

“It’s the gateway to music.” Karkat drew himself up a little, frowning. “The teacher says I’m good at it.”  
“Never act like you’re fucking proud of that around me again.” Slick glowered at the white instrument, which Karkat was clinging to. “Fucking gateway to music? Gateway to eternal goddamn suffering, more like.”

“I’m learning to play a fucking instrument. We have to.” He wasn’t snarling at his guardian, because that would be a bad idea, but it was a near thing.

“Watch your goddamn language.” Slick gestured to the recorder. “They want you to learn a fucking instrument and they give you that piece of shit? Jesus.”

“Well it’s not like I have anything better to learn on!” Karkat said hotly.

“Bull _shit_ you don’t! The fuck is sitting in the office?”

“Your fucking inanimate life partner!” Karkat crossed his arms and glared. Slick blinked. “ _Maybe_ if you’d let me within five feet of the piano I wouldn’t be stuck with this stupid thing,” he added, sullenly.

“You little shit,” said Slick, and that seemed to be the end of it, because he spun on his heel and slammed the door. Karkat waited a few seconds before blowing into the recorder, as loudly as he possibly could. The resultant squeak was truly glorious, and he could hear the swearing coming from the kitchen as clearly as if it had been in his room. Although possibly quieter.

-()-

(3) Clubs was very enthusiastic about crafts, and Droog would only allow machine-washable art supplies.

-()-

Karkat stopped caring about Slick’s whereabouts after that, because he had hatched a glorious plan. The recorder obviously grated on every single one of Slick’s nerves, and he was pretty sure that through sufficient application of the recorder, Slick might eventually break down and concede to letting Karkat play the piano. It was a dangerous game, to be sure, but the payoff would be rich.

He played that recorder constantly. Morning, evening, weekends. He especially enjoyed playing while Slick was trying to sleep off a bad night at the club. They didn’t speak anymore, instead engaging in aggressive assaults against one another via musical expression and the occasional thrown blade. Karkat was particularly proud when he elevated it to actually using his instrument in place of speech and expression. Slick’s face when he’d started blowing the recorder into a bowl of cereal had been priceless. Loath as he was to admit it, Vriska really did have some brilliant ideas sometimes.

The evenings when Slick was home were almost ridiculously loud. Karkat would sit in his room or, if he was feeling daring and Slick was too hungover or beat up to bother pitching a knife by Karkat’s head(4), in the living room and play that recorder as loudly and as passionately as he could. Accidentals and stylistic flourishes and all. Sometimes Slick would just turn the TV up to drown him out, but then there were the nights when Slick was playing the piano. Karkat would play just as loudly and as emotionally as he could, and Slick would hammer on that piano until either Karkat gave up or one of the neighbors called to complain. Usually the latter.

Of course, someone had to break eventually, and Karkat was determined that it wouldn’t be him. That being said, they would only be studying the glorious tones of the recorder for another few days at school, and Slick showed no signs of giving in.

Clearly this needed to be escalated.

“You guys have to do something for me,” Karkat told his friends at lunch.

“Anything, KK!” John chirped, perking up.

“Not you.” Karkat glowered at the other Crewmembers’ wards. “You three.”

Aradia sipped delicately at her milk bag. “And what would that be?”

He leaned forward, hands clasped. “Alright, so you know about my ongoing war with Slick?”

“The daily trialth of your very exithtenthe?” Sollux suggested.

“No, the specific one with the recorder.”

“Oh. Yeth.”

“Well I am _this close_ ,” Karkat gestured, his fingers barely a millimeter apart, “from breaking him. _That close_.”

“I, uh, really?” Tavros looked around and then back to Karkat. “That, um, seems unlikely.”

“I’m telling you, if I blow one more fucking arpeggio into that fucking devil instrument he’s going to kill himself.”

John frowned a little. “Hey, I like the recorder.”

“While I admit driving Slick to suicide would be an achievement, I’m not sure it’s, you know, _desirable_ , Karkat.” Aradia and Sollux exchanged a look. “That’s not your goal, is it?”

“Don’t be retarded. I just want him to let me play his stupid piano.” Karkat smirked. “He’s close, so close.”

Sollux raised an eyebrow. “Do you even _like_ the piano?”

“It’s about the principle at this point, Sollux.”

“Why don’t you just play it?” Aradia and Sollux both shrugged. “Does he really care that much? Dad let me try the saxophone once.”

“Yeah?”

“I mean, he kind of accidentally ripped the newspaper in half after about two minutes, but that was fine because I didn’t like it anyway.”

“I would kill mythelf before I got caught dead with an oboe.”

They all looked to Tavros, who shrugged. “Um. I, uh. Well it’s never really, um, come up. Besides, the double bass is, um, well it’s taller than me.”

“See, he’s completely unreasonable.”

“Karkat, everyone knows that.”

He pounded his fist into his hand and snarled at the other three. “I have to win this one! I can’t lose! I have to play that piano!”

They looked to him, and then to one another. Finally, Sollux sighed and prodded at a tater tot. “What do you want uth to do?”

-()-

(4) To be fair, he’d never once actually hit Karkat with one.

-()-

It would be the last time Slick would ever pick the four of them up from school again. By the time Tavros finally got up the courage to haltingly contribute to the four-troll recorder orchestra Karkat was delighted to see the man actually start shaking. The low growl that he was producing added a pleasant bass note to the squeals of the recorders.

Karkat was going to break Spades Slick. His moment of glory.

Aradia was the last to get out, and she shot Karkat a worried look over her shoulder as she trotted down the sidewalk. No sooner had she ducked in the front door and out of sight, Slick peeled out and swerved down the street. Karkat started another refrain of ‘Frere Jacques’ when the moment came. The car slammed to a stop and Slick let his head fall onto the steering wheel, the car’s horn blaring and adding a pleasant off-key A to the symphony.

“You’re really want to learn a fucking instrument?”

Karkat could hardly believe it was actually happening. He squeaked an E once, an affirmative.

“The piano?”

E flat.

Slick took a breath. “If I let you learn how to play the fucking piano, will you _please_ fucking destroy that unholy devil instrument?”

E.

“Fine.” Slick sat back up, took the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip, and drove home.

-()-

That night, Karkat played the piano for three hours. He ran out of things to play after about one, and alternated between ‘Hot Crossed Buns’, ‘Frere Jacques’ and ‘Closing Time’ for the remaining two. Slick left him alone for about the first two hours, presumably to fortify himself with adequate amounts of liquor. Then he and his bourbon bottle trailed in, and he lay on the couch, offering half-hearted pointers for the rest of the time.

After Karkat admitted he was tired of playing, Slick pointed to him, upside-down from Karkat’s point of view. “Now you fucking owe me.”

The recorder was sitting on the music rack. Karkat picked it up and turned it over in his hands. He’d been so determined to play that damn piano, the recorder had simply become collateral in his quest. But now . . . it had been his first instrument. It had been his constant companion for the last two months. It had been the instrument responsible for the downfall of Spades Slick. And, possibly most importantly, it was school property.

He raised it to his lips, poised for one last farewell squeal, but the soft _schick_ of a playing card flipping and becoming something distinctly more metallic gave him pause.

Finally, he held it out. “Want to do it together?”

Slick smiled serenely, drunk as hell, and rolled off the couch. “Fuck yeah.”

Karkat would have been satisfied with that, he thought, as they stood in the back yard and watched the recorder burn in a puddle of cheap vodka. Especially because Slick broke out the cherry bombs for the occasion. Karkat pitched them at the recorder, relishing the little explosions. _It’s a good death_ , he thought to the recorder. _There is no shame in this_.

Perhaps he’d been spending too much time at Strider’s.

Or, he amended the next night, when Slick got home around ten, bleeding but basically sober, perhaps he’d been around Egbert and his Dad too much. Because after Spades gestured vaguely to the office and snarled a question about whether Karkat had bothered to practice or not, he couldn’t help but think that perhaps that was simply the icing on the cake.

-()-

(sunglasses) YEEEAAAAAAAHHHHHHH


End file.
